


Can it not just wait til morning

by spiralis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Friendship saves the day, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Night Terrors, Pre-Dragon Age II - Act 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29502234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiralis/pseuds/spiralis
Summary: Anders wanders the streets of Lowtown at night to try and recover from a disturbing nightmare about his time with the Grey Wardens, but the implications of what he dreamed won't let him go and Justice only makes matters worse. When things reach a fever pitch, Anders rushes to the Hanged Man in need for friendship and reprieve.
Relationships: Anders & Justice (Dragon Age), Anders & Varric Tethras, Implied Unrequited Anders/Male Hawke
Kudos: 6





	Can it not just wait til morning

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite relationships in Dragon Age 2 is the friendship between Anders and Varric and the change in tone in their banter between Act 2 and Act 3 always gets to me. So I wrote a self-indulgent piece about it that completely went out of hand! There's a lot of other stuff I still wanted to get in there, but I did actually try to keep it brief. 
> 
> This oneshot takes place a short time after the Legacy DLC, between Acts 2 and 3. Please enjoy and let me know your thoughts!

Acrid fumes hung heavy in the air of the tunnels. The stench almost had its own physical presence in the way it crept into his air ways and made it hard to draw breath. It had made them all quiet as they tried to avoid stepping on the strange fleshy growths covering parts of the ground and the walls; if Anders looked too long he could swear they were pulsing slightly, feeling every pulse like the beat of his own heart.

Something lived here that Anders didn’t want to see. He tried to keep his eyes fixed to the back of the Warden-Commander, on the familiar griffon heraldry emblazoning her shield. Nothing in the way she moved betrayed whether she could sense it too. Her hand rested easy on the hilt of her sword.

The winding tunnels got progressively more difficult to traverse, forcing them to walk on the growths as the ground became uneven. They would give ever so slightly under Anders’ weight with a sickening, squelching sound. Everything was damp and warm, and Anders hoped that it was sweat that ran along his brow as his breathing grew more and more shallow.

Soon they were in place that Anders recognized well. They were in one of the many tunnels sleeping deep beneath Vigil’s keep, walking past long abandoned dark spawn barricades. How long had it been since they had walked these halls together? Sigrun smiled at him with understanding when she glanced over.  
When they reached a fork in the road, Anders found a weight finally lifted off his chest. Two massive holes were gaping in the stone, the one on the right side leading down another cramped path, and the other opening up to the inside of a large structure illuminated by an odd blue glow. The walls there were of solid stone adorned with careful geometric designs of lyrium, reaching up so impossibly high that Anders couldn’t even make out a ceiling when he entered. From far away, the soft echo of running water called out to him. 

A flicker of hope lit him up like a spark in dry kindling. This was it! The place they had been looking for! The exhaustion of their grueling eternal march fell off him like opened shackles as he turned and ran back to the others, cursing the way his robes would slow him down. When the canal spat him out, he was back in the deep roads.  
This time there was not an inch that was not covered in organic matter. The walls were infested with empty egg sacks sprouting from the flesh and Anders’ blood rushed in his ears, whispering to him in clicking and chittering sounds that whatever had nested there was watching him. His body and chest seized up around nothing in anticipation of a threat he couldn’t see, his limbs stiff and useless as the paralyzing poison of panic set in. But no, he could see it. When he looked down, through the grate of the drain under his feet, the thick tentacle of a broodmother emerged from the dark in greeting. When he lifted his head, he looked right into the bulging humanoid face of one of her Children, perched on its grotesque legs.

“ _We need you, Grey Warden_ ” it spoke with a calm voice. Its claw-like appendages poised, it jumped at him baring its needle teeth and buried them deep into his neck. He didn’t even get to scream, his blood pooling in his mouth as his skin tore. He could feel the way the creature sucked the rest of it right out of his veins. His legs gave in, crushed by the weight of the childer now feasting on him.

“Why can’t I help you?” Justice wailed mournfully from Kristoff’s body, half swallowed by the wall. “I’m stuck here. Anders, what can I do? This isn’t right!”

“I don’t know!“ Anders forced out, his hands pushing fruitlessly at the darkspawn burrowing itself in his body. The fade was silent and sliding away further and further the deeper the teeth went. “Get off of me!”

“ _I apologize for what I must do to you_ ” the childer said. “ _But the Father says we need your blood._ ”

His arms were getting weaker, he still tried to dig his fingers into the creature’s eyes.

“ _It’ll make us free. Wouldn’t that be just?_ ”

Anders sought Justice’s eye, his own despair reflected back at him. Justice opened his mouth as he struggled, his words coming out as a death rattle. “Why can’t I change this? Why aren’t you letting me?”

“ _But it’ll hurt us too. It’ll be sad._ ”

Everything was becoming blurry, colors and sensations mixing together in agony. He couldn’t see, couldn’t smell, couldn’t move, couldn’t feel. There was only the sound of this voice.

“ _We’ll miss the song. Oh, the beautiful song! How we’ll miss it!_ ”

“I can hear it too, Anders” a woman whispered. The Warden Commander! She had to do something! He had watched her cut down dragons, why wasn’t she doing anything? Why wasn’t she helping? Nothing had ever stopped her before, not archdemons, not self-preservation, not reason. “It’s heart-wrenching. There is a part of me that understands the darkspawn now. Why they long to hear it so much…”

She began to hum an unfathomable melody that was alien and familiar at once, like the impression of a song he’d forgotten in his childhood. Blindly he tried to reach her so he could make her stop, somehow, whatever it took, but there was nothing, only a great expanse of nothing where her voice became a drop in the ocean of the song.

It thrummed in his chest like it came from inside his bones—

“ _They call to us! They need us! Please! Grey Warden! Oh, Grey Warden!_ ”

The whole world shaken by the song calling— 

* * *

Anders awoke drenched in sweat with a sob. Eyes unfocused and mentally still entangled in the images of his nightmare, his hands shot up to touch his neck to convince himself that there was no darkspawn there. Relief when he felt that his skin was intact but it was running hot, crawling with something that weren’t there. He was trembling all over, couldn’t stop gasping, his stomach was rolling, there was a flash of blue. Quick, quick where—

Scrambling to get up, Anders managed to take a few steps before he had to lean against the wall for support and retched once, twice. The nausea was still there, but it receded just as much as Anders needed it to so that he could reach for a cloth and wipe the saliva and vomit from his mouth.

He looked around frantically, taking a moment to recognize he was in his own clinic. It was pitch dark in the room save for a little lantern and it slowly dawned on him that he must’ve fallen asleep in the evening, only to wake in the middle of the night from a nightmare. And how lucky that he did wake.

A nightmare… Anders always kept a bowl or two of clean water around when treating patients. Knowing this place better than the back of his hand, he found one of them even in the relative darkness and splashed his face with the water. For good measure he rubbed his hands over his face, hoping that if he convinced himself enough that he was awake, the sick sense of dread looming over him would disappear. The scratch of his stubble was oddly grounding, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

It had been so visceral. Even now he felt little aftershocks of the “song”. And if there were not the usual noise of a night in Darktown, he was certain that he would be able to hear a faint melody from deep underground.

Maker’s breath, he had to get out of here.

As Anders headed for one of the exits to Lowtown he passed the faces of people he’d seen too many times. There were children that were growing up before his eyes in the dirt. He hastened his pace.

To wander the maze of Lowtown alone at night as a mage was among the most stupid things one could do in Kirkwall. Anders could not find it in himself to care, feeling himself embraced by the night’s chill when he reached the surface. It soothed his burning skin much like ointment did to a wound. A sigh came over his lips as he tipped his head back to gaze upon the stars. See? he thought triumphantly to himself. No ceiling, no stone. Only sky. Just a regular night in Kirkwall, whatever that meant these days.

He drifted in and out of alleyways he’d never seen in the years he’d lived here to stay out of the templars’ sight, along streets he’d last walked before he’d met Hawke. There was no one place he really wanted to be in right now, he was simply grateful for the quiet in his skull that the movement and the cold afforded him. Hadn’t really had much of that lately, or ever, since he’d let Justice in. He looked down from a ledge of a dead end to the docks, his gaze sweeping across to where the few lights of the Gallows gleamed. It was a bit strange, if he thought about it. Justice made it hard to remember dreams usually. Somehow Anders had assumed that if he were to experience a nightmare again, it would involve a templar. It would have been kinder.

The wind tugged at Anders as he stared transfixed at the circle, strands of hair falling into his eyes. The longer he looked, the louder his heart thumped in his chest, the muscle squeezing like a clenched fist as images flashed before his eyes. He tried to push them away, but Justice would not relent. When Bethany’s face entered his mind, Anders pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes.

“I was just going for a walk” he muttered, bracing himself against Justice’s reproach. “You know, I thought it was you who said that there’s beauty in this world and now you won’t even let me appreciate the moonshine. That’s more than just a little unfair.”

He raised his head again to the one moon shining bright tonight, hands trembling once more. Something in him stirred at the sight so that even Anders had to smile a little. The serenity of night. The gratitude of a mage holding up pieces of their broken phylactery. The relief when the fever of a patient finally broke against the odds. Finally storming the baroness’ estate. The amulet Hawke had given him that he kept under his shirt, just out of sight but he always knew it was there. Darkspawn blood gleaming on the Warden Commander’s blade. A cat purring on his lap. The granite fortifications of the keep. A ring, a ring made of lyrium, she’d given him a ring. The people of this plane couldn’t hear it, but he could. Like the fade woven into sound, a beautiful song that calls…

Ander’s stomach lurched unexpectedly and he managed to clasp his hand over his mouth before he threw up this time. With great effort and his insides still twisting he swallowed it back down, coughing and gagging as he stumbled away from the ledge.

A spike of irritation. It’s not that kind of song, Anders thought. He retraced his steps to an intersection, taking a path that lead left through a narrow alley as his restlessness returned with a vengeance. And it wasn’t his memory for sure. A rat squeaked in panic when he nearly stepped on it and he cursed as the critter hurried past him. He darted out of the alley, then down a flight of stairs hewn directly into the stone, starting to feel as though something was lurking right behind him.

Why was he angry? The Warden Commander had never wronged them. Because it wasn’t about her or about wrongs. Anders’ coat nearly caught on one of the iron spikes jutting out from the ground. The problem was that he had never wanted to go back there, but Hawke had taken him anyway. And what did he do? What did he hear?

He’s not Vengeance. Or wasn’t he? He’s not a demon. But we’re an abomination. Anders gritted his teeth. Fenris was right on that account at least. He had become an abomination long ago, even if the process wasn’t as sudden as the Chantry would think. Justice wouldn’t like to be reminded, but if it weren’t for Hawke and the others, they would have slain that poor girl they’d meant to protect.  
And underneath the Vimmark Mountains they’d turned his magic even against his friends. All because—

Anders’ throat was beginning to hurt even though he wasn’t even running. Feverishly he touched his neck to prove to himself once again that there were no teeth. A piece of himself had never left the Deep Roads. And what remained of Justice now? Some memories and a rage that seared him to the bone.  
Behind him he heard footsteps and the rattle of armor.

What if it was a templar?

Yes, what then?

Somehow the question didn’t come with enough fear. Or any. The truth was that right now Anders almost hoped a templar would come and find him. He didn’t need a staff anymore to defend himself, thanks to Justice magic would pour all too readily through the veil. One dead templar, one dead mage, Anders feared that at this point it didn’t even make a difference anymore.  
Anders peered over his shoulder. A guardswoman stopped in her tracks when she noticed him, narrowed her eyes, and then continued to walk her round without a second glance. Likewise Anders picked up his pace again as well.

He wasn’t an abomination. Vengeance was angry now. He was spewing Chantry propaganda at himself because it was difficult to care about this world, beautiful and broken as it was. He couldn’t give up now just because it was difficult. There was too much here that had gone unpunished and not a day would pass without more suffering heaped onto the pile unless this whole damn system crumbled. He wasn’t an abomination.

Anders recognized the area they were in now, the streets broader to accommodate the crowds that usually mingled here. There were people shrouded in darkness in the corners of the market, but none of them looked his way. His nails were digging into his arm and he wondered if maybe he could...

It was a trap; every mage lived in a trap. Push a little to pull your head from the noose and the rope around your neck only tightens, every single time. Vengeance prodded, reminding him of Karl until Anders had to bite the inside of his cheek. Thousands of voices in Thedas were crying out for Justice! Somebody had to answer the call, even if it was a losing battle, even if he was going to try to hold back a tidal wave by himself! He wasn’t an abomination!

He was a liability! Anders took two stairs at a time, his blood boiling despite himself. Chill had turned to cold in the time he’d wasted running around, but he was pretty certain there was a passage back to Darktown nearby. If he was lucky he could get another hour or two of sleep before the daily grind picked back up.

Was he running away again?

He wasn’t running. Wasn’t he? The Warden Commander smiling at him, one of her rare smiles. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. Anders or Justice remembered her reciting the motto to herself in a light-hearted tune before leaving for Amaranthine to defend it. This was his chance to remedy his cowardice. 

Anders didn’t have the energy left tonight to argue. He knew, yes, he knew there was no turning back and that he had chosen this. There was no escape from the Wardens, no escape from the Calling, from Justice, from himself, from the path he’d chosen, from the path the templars were forcing. But wasn’t he allowed to be angry to know this for a little while? Wasn’t he allowed to mourn that for all the freedom he fought for, Anders had forsaken his own? He hadn’t wanted to be an abomination.

Vengeance didn’t understand anymore. It would be the most beautiful thing of all to see the circles fall, no matter what it took. No more Ser Rylocks, no more Ser Alriks, no more Merediths.

Anders frantically looked around—

It’d be beautiful but it wasn’t all that Anders wanted. He’d wanted to be free, and now he’d never be. He had made a demon out of Justice, he couldn’t trust himself to make the right decisions. All of this had been a mistake. And even if he succeeded, one day the taint would come for him. 

Don’t think like that! It wasn’t his fault that the world had made him like this! This was worth every price! He knew that!

There had to be something to get him out of this, change of course—

He couldn’t be trusted, couldn’t be relied on! He didn’t know what to do!

He would find a way, he had to! The circles had to go! They had never cared about the suffering they inflicted on mages, generation after generation! Whatever he could do it would be justified! They had sealed their fate centuries ago!

They had to go, but—

**_IT WOULD ONLY BE JUST!_ **

Anders winced, the words booming in his skull with terrible finality. Something in his mind was burgeoning against his defenses, the veil around him straining and warping under its stress. Anders hissed, stemming against the tide of righteous fury and frustration that incensed Vengeance. The pressure abated not long after, but the damage was done. His heart and head were pounding, everything in him was reeling as it had when he’d woken, but suddenly he remembered: he knew where he was. Down this street past the merchant’s stand, one more set of stairs, then turn right. He was nauseous with resentment, though he couldn’t say if it was his own or who it was aimed at.  
He almost stumbled his way up. It was embarrassing that it felt as though he would be okay if he just made it there, maybe, but he’d lost all of his dignity already running through Kirkwall like a madman. Might as well act like a child and pretend the bad things can’t get him so long as the candle was burning. He rounded the corner, his heart skipping a beat. When he saw it, relief washed over him warmly and he couldn’t help but laugh.

Somehow he’d made it to the Hanged Man just in time.

Not giving himself the time for second thoughts he pushed past a drunken patron through the entrance door, praying that they weren’t closed yet. With a creak the door swung open for him, allowing him to step inside, the tavern reeking of desperation and hundreds of beers and ales spilled over the decades.  
Barely anyone was still here. The old man who was always muttering to himself was sitting at one of the tables by himself, apparently only half-awake, and a man was leaning on the counter where the tired bartender Corff was already eyeing Anders. No Isabela, no Varric. Shit.

“We’re about to close.”

Anders paused and dug through the pocket of his coat for coins. “Enough time left for me to get a drink, right?” He gave the man a strained smile and slid the silver he’d found across the counter, hating the way he couldn’t keep his hands still. The man caved.

With his freshly-purchased drink in hand and a view to the door Anders plopped down on one of the benches in the back of the room, sinking in on himself a little. He hadn’t planned to actually drink anything, but the longer he sat the more he became aware of how drained he really was. A dull ache spread through his whole body from exhaustion and his throat and mouth were parched while hair stuck uncomfortably to his forehead with sweat.  
His mind was suspiciously quiet when he raised the bottle to his lips and drank. The sense of doom and the heat of anger however still formed a tight knot in his chest that kept him tense, so he knew it wasn’t over yet. Static buzzed in his ears.

When the entrance door creaked once more, Anders perked up.

Sheer dumb luck, Anders couldn’t believe it, it was sheer dumb luck that the person who entered really was Varric. When he spotted Anders he raised his hand in greeting and made a beeline to his table.

“Varric, we’re closing!” Corff yelled in dismay, but the dwarf only waved him off.

“You know, you should probably consider listening to him” Anders commented as Varric took a seat across from him against the bartender’s protests. “One day he’ll stab you in your sleep.”

“Oh he’s harmless” Varric said. He opened his mouth as if to elaborate, but something in his expression changed when he looked at Anders. Then after some apparent deliberation with a bit too much sincerity: “…You look like shit.”

The corners of Anders’ lips twitched up reflexively, unsure yet if he wanted the concern. “And here I was thinking I only felt like it!”

Anders didn’t feel like joking, he hadn’t felt like it in weeks but there was something soothing about when they both broke out into nervous chuckles over his quip. A bit like a reassurance that oh right, so he could still talk like a person.

“Did you run into any trouble?”

Anders made it a point to yawn. “I just fell asleep in the clinic. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Varric didn’t inquire further even though Anders could see that he knew it was a bit more than that. There was a twinge of disappointment and unease. Usually Varric would fill moments like this with empty talk but for some reason he was holding off on it.  
So they sat suspended in unnatural silence until Anders had drunk the last drop from his bottle. He licked his lip, waiting for Varric to strike but nothing came. The only quiet sounds came from the bar and the fire crackling nearby, the static in Anders’ head grew louder. He was getting ready to abandon ship if this was how it was going to go, when it occurred to him what Varric was doing.

Anders studied his companion’s face, who was pretending to read a letter he’d pulled from one of his pockets. It would be terrifyingly easy to tell him about everything that was troubling him; really, a part of Anders yearned to let it all spill out of him in the hope that maybe once it was out this pressure in his head would be gone. That used to work. But there was too much to put to words by now, steeped in too much shame, and too much that Varric for all his kindness simply wouldn’t understand. Or shouldn’t have to hear. Once he said it, he would never be able to take any of it back.  
But, Anders didn’t want to leave. He desperately didn’t want to leave and be alone with himself. And there _was_ something that he knew would be safest with Varric. It would be a compromise. 

“I should come back in the evening when the others are here” Anders ventured.

Varric didn’t even look up. “Oh come on. You don’t come by the Hanged Man much anymore, would be a shame if you left so soon. You must’ve missed the filth.”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Don’t be so serious, of course you have! It goes great with your look right now. So, are you staying?”

Corff was glowering at them now. “Sure.”

Varric stuffed the letter back to where it came from with less care than one would a handkerchief and got up. Anders hesitated one last moment before he followed suit, swallowing his reluctance as he took the familiar path up to Varric’s room.  
In all the years he’d known Varric, somehow the room had stayed mostly the same. Much of that was probably to blame on the tavern itself, but it still struck Anders now that it had been some time since he’d last been in there. The biggest difference he could make out was that there were now chairs to accommodate a human or an elf; there were little traces that friends had left. It was weirdly cute. 

Anders sank on the chair closest to Varric’s favorite little throne, stretching out his legs. For a room at the Hanged Man it was really quite nice, even if the lack of windows was depressing. He felt a bit out of place.

Varric took his seat and wrung his hands. “So what are you in the mood for? Need an editor for your manifesto, or do you want to brainstorm—“

“No” Anders cut him off sharply. “Not tonight.”

“Somebody’s touchy” Varric scoffed. “But alright. What is it then?”

Anders tried to collect his thoughts, frustrated with himself that he was so out of practice that he couldn’t be like Varric and talk about things without mentioning them. His gaze lingered on the vase with wilted flowers Varric kept on his desk next to an unopened bottle of a Tevinter vintage. “I’ve been thinking about how I’ve gone into the Deep Roads twice now since leaving the Grey Wardens.”

“Oh? You’re not getting nostalgic now, are you? I know I said you should reconsider your career but…” 

“No. No, not at all. I absolutely despise the Deep Roads. I’m still angry at Hawke for asking me to come along at all. I thought he knew better than that” Anders admitted, the words bitter on his tongue. Acrid fumes, the unnerving feeling of another creature in his blood. “But it’s hard to say no to him, so guess I’m the idiot.”

At that Varric’s expression briefly turned serious again. “It’s just our luck that whenever the Deep Roads are involved, we either get screwed over or somebody’s got it out for Hawke. But I could also live without ever having to go down there again.”

“That isn’t the point. But it’s actually a bit funny. Hawke reminds me at times of the Warden Commander.”

“How so?”

“Charismatic bastards that attract a special kind of trouble and surround themselves with the worst kinds of people” Anders deadpanned, relieved when Varric relaxed again.

“We’re just a bit rough around the edges” Varric replied. “But go on, I’m interested in hearing this.”

“How much have I told you before?”

“Aside from the story of how you were recruited and how mad the templar was that the Hero of Ferelden and the King were both telling her off? A story here and there. If I didn’t already _know_ the Order is fishy, I’d have guessed as much from how you talk about them.”

Anders clicked his tongue. “Well then. Care to hear about my dark past?”

“Sure” Varric said with a wink. “It’ll come in handy if I ever need inspiration for unrealistic Grey Warden characters.”

Anders grinned. “So have you heard this one before: the Hero of Ferelden, a drunk dwarf, an apostate and his cat, a member of the legion of the dead, the son of the disgraced Howe family, a slightly homicidal Dalish mage and a rotting corpse walk into the Deep Roads…”

“A corpse?!”

“And yet somehow the dwarf smelled worst” Anders joked. “Oghren was a complete pig. At first I didn’t really understand why we were bothering with him, but apparently he’d traveled with the Warden Commander during the Blight. Turned out he _really_ had a hand for cutting down darkspawn. So much so that he left his wife and unborn child to go kill more of them. …Thinking about it, I’m sure he would have loved the Hanged Man. Filthy, barely any sunlight during the day, cheap alcohol…”

“Ouch, that was unnecessary” Varric grumbled. “But I’ve heard that name before. Maybe he should’ve just stayed in Orzammar, Maker knows they’re always trying to get their hands on lunatics like that. A corpse though—”

“The strange thing is that they were all like this” Anders insisted. “And if they weren’t from the start, they would be by the end of it. Nathaniel made the classic mistake of trying to assassinate the Warden Commander in revenge for daddy dearest and got recruited as thanks. He was a terrible grump about it too and said he'd rather be hanged. But give it a little time and before you knew it he was fully indoctrinated. So maybe what Orzammar really needs is better recruiters.”

“I’ll let them know somehow” Varric snorted and rose from his seat. Anders watched him grab a bottle and pour its content into a glass. He was beginning to feel as though a string that was cutting into his flesh was threatening to loosen, only a little bit.  
Varric placed the glass in front of him and settled back into his own chair, keeping an expectant eye on him. “Go on.”

Anders nodded to Varric in silent thanks and eagerly drank the watered down ale. “She’d recruited really anyone who seemed half-way capable and was unlucky enough to cross our path. So that’s how we ended up with Velanna and Sigrun. I think Velanna only listened to us because the Warden Commander was Dalish herself. When we found her she was having a grand time burning down trade caravans because she was convinced her sister had been abducted by humans, when it was really darkspawn. Sigrun got recruited after we fought our way through a thaig together. She was an awfully cheerful lady for someone who was supposed to be dead. Pick-pocketed me at least six times for sport though.”

“And it kept working?”

“She was _really_ good.”

“I’m sure she was. And…?”

“And then there was Ser Pounce-a-lot, the best kitten anyone could ask for. There isn’t much to say about the corpse, Varric.”

Varric put his hands up defensively. “Excuse me, but you can’t drop that in there and expect me to not be curious!”

“That was Justice’s old host” Anders explained, overcome with a shiver that wasn’t his own. “He doesn’t want me to talk about it. Just know that he was there.”

“Oh.”

Anders’ vision zeroed in momentarily on the wine bottle. Another bottle just like this always stood in Hawke’s study where he needed it most. “But I think that gives you a pretty good idea of what we were like.”

Varric hummed and scratched his chin. “Should I be worried that you’re comparing us to that little cult you’re describing?”

“In our defense, we were a pretty fun cult sometimes.”

Anders set his glass down softly before he crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair and frowned at the ceiling in thought. He’d always kept to the stories that didn’t require context or detail beyond the way the hurlock had tripped over his staff and off a cliff. He hadn’t thought before about how to convey personalities or meaning while leaving the important things unspoken. The Warden Commander wiping blood from her cheek, bent over the dead body of the ogre she’d killed. Hawke breathing hard, checking to see if he had killed the Arishok for good. 

“Think about it: If it weren’t for Hawke, none of us would given the other a second glance” Anders began. “That’s what it was like with the Warden Commander as well. They’re the kind of people that draw others to them and make you want to stick around just to see what they get up to next.”

“That… puts it well actually.”

“How many times has Hawke asked you to join him to do something that is obviously a bad idea? And you went along anyway? That happens practically every other week.”

“Like all the times he decided he’d pick a fight with every gang in Hightown? Or maybe when he took us to the Wounded Coast and got involved with hunting down an extremely dangerous criminal? _Everything_ involving the Qunari? My personal favorite is the time he went to kill some dragons with us in the Bone Pit.”

“Exactly—“ Anders had to swallow, “but you always expect things to go well just because he seems so convinced that it will.”

“And it usually does.”

“It does. Every time we go into a fight I can’t help but trust him.”

He stopped himself there. Why had he agreed to come with to the Deep Roads? Because so long as Hawke was there, it was as though there was a lifeline. The inevitability of this world seemed to hold less power over him and it was eating Anders up with envy and admiration. He had no choice but to want to stay near.   
Varric waited patiently. Perhaps he understood what Anders couldn’t think.

Eventually he asked: “So what did the Hero of Ferelden do that gained your trust?”

“Oh, I saw her do a vertical leap and ram a sword straight through an ogre’s skull.”

“…You’re shitting me.”

Anders shifted for comfort, glad to direct the conversation into a different direction. “I’m serious. And she made it look easy, too. It was equal parts disgusting and impressive.”

“What did that look like, exactly?” Varric asked, sounding casual but Anders recognized that curious glint in his eyes.

Anders felt another grin pulling at his mouth. “We were harmlessly traipsing around the Wending Woods killing darkspawn, when suddenly that big stupid beast charged at us. All the Warden Commander did was to jump straight up and angle her sword right and the ogre practically impaled itself. She braces herself against the ogre that is still barreling forward, yanks her blade out and blood explodes everywhere. We’re all hit by the spray while she manages a perfect landing as the ogre collapses behind her.”

“Do you have more details by any chance?”

“She had her sword enchanted with a rune that imbued it with electricity, so it smelled of smoked darkspawn in the whole clearing. Is that graphic enough? If not, I can go on all day. Grey Wardens kill a _lot_ of darkspawn.”

Apparently delighted by what he was hearing Varric sat straighter, his hand hovering near a quill but not grabbing it. Anders took it as an invitation anyway, blowing the spider webs off memories he’d kept stowed away. He started off with the easy things, stories like the ones with the ogre. Violence was mindlessly entertaining after all. Gesticulating dramatically he told of encounters with sylvans, of blighted wolves, of the ghosts of dwarves conjured by stone hacking at impressions of darkspawn, reenacting their deaths until the end of time. He regaled Varric with all the darkspawn heads that had exploded from shield bashes, arrows and magic blasts.   
Whatever bound him was unraveling. His heart beat fast in excitement whenever Varric interjected and needled him, when they both laughed at the absurdity of it all. Nathaniel once shot a genlock with its own arrow. One hurlock was so confused to see its fellow darkspawn beheaded in one swing of Oghren’s axe that it suffered the same fate. Velanna’s fireballs had singed Ander’s robes on more than one occasion. Soon Varric began to share his own tales, giving Anders the space to remember the little things quietly by himself. Taking a week to learn that the Warden Commander’s name was Serket because nobody ever used it. Sigrun proudly showing off the brass telescope she’d been given. How he smuggled Ser Pounce-a-lot along on missions and had to chase after the cat through half of Amaranthine.   
He was feeling more like a person, more like himself than he had in months.

Vengeance’s ache continued to sit with him through it all but it was different now. What had split his head in half hours ago with every heart beat was just the occasional throb behind his eye. The separation between then and now may only be paper-thin but it was there. No, so maybe he wouldn’t tell Varric of the Architect with his intelligent darkspawn and that Hawke and Serket thus had more in common than immunizing against common sense. He wouldn’t talk about the children or how he was being eaten alive by his choices. But with Varric he didn’t have to for the pressure to ease.

By the end of it Anders was curled up in his chair, his coat hung over the backrest for cushoning. The conversation had trickled away somewhere along the way. The stasis wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was tinged with the melancholy of knowing that morning had come. There was a sliver of light coming from under the door. Varric had gotten up and laid down out of sight from him some time ago. Anders scratched his neck in anticipation, static back in his head as he bated his breath. This silence wasn’t empty yet, the way it was when people decide to go to sleep. This was the twilight hour in between. The backrest dug into his cheek.

“Why did you leave the Wardens then?”

And exhaled. “That’s complicated.”

“So?”

“I was a different person back then.”

“Well yeah, people change. That’s what being a person is like.”

Feeling the fade touch his mind when he agreed to take Justice into him, believing with all his being that this would be the key. A queasy mixture of joy and bitterness accompanied the memory as he and Justice couldn’t agree. The water had only continued to rise around him. What did he have to show for the person he was now?

He could hear Varric turn over. “Listen, Blondie. So maybe you weren’t a good Grey Warden. But you’ve picked another battle that’s about as insane and that unfortunately seems to be working for you.”

Anders stared into the darkness of the room wordlessly, blinking as though stunned. He waited until he was certain that Varric was asleep, listening close for his breathing. “Thank you, Varric.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Of course he’d say that. If he were to mention it to Varric later anyway he’d brush it off and find a way to paint it as the most incidental thing in the world. Anders curled in more on himself even though would become painful soon, finally closing his eyes. A deep calm crept into the space the tension had left behind.

Varric’s friendship was so often understated like that. It made it so easy to want to confide in him, simply because he didn’t ask too much. Nothing had to be serious. He cared in a way that Anders hadn’t had enough mind to appreciate lately. Maybe you couldn’t trust him to keep all your secrets, but you could always trust him to remind you that you were only a person.  
Varric was a good friend. He’d have to find something to give to Varric, something that would leave a trace of him, something to express… He’d find something… something…

* * *

Hours after Anders had left, Varric noticed a single tawny feather on the ground under one of his chairs. He picked it up, held it between his fingers briefly before he placed it gently among his other keepsakes. 


End file.
